


you be judith and i'll be holofernes

by riverbed



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Affairs, Cheating, F/M, Infidelity, Timeline Jump, the past come back to haunt you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 04:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6315337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbed/pseuds/riverbed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He barely recognizes her. She looks older, lines of furrow pressed into the corners of her mouth, her eyes sharpened with the wisdom he knows his wife and sister-in-law to have. A woman, not a girl.</p><p>Looking at her still makes him feel young.</p><p>He considers whether his own pattern of attraction has been to women with damage, and decides that - no, it has been to women with damage to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you be judith and i'll be holofernes

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys. writing about the power of women again. who is surprised.
> 
>  
> 
> [title's from here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cdE_GoIoG74)

She accosts him in public. _Mister Hamilton,_ she says. He is taken aback by her boldness, but supposes in her situation anyone would cast away shame for the good of their child. Her story - it rings in his heart, Hamilton has always been one for stories. He lets them capture him. He looks at her lips, lets them capture him.

He agrees to help her, and that’s the beginning - that’s what it all comes down to.

Later in the afternoon he stands at her door and waits. He knows of Reynolds, a cunning man making his way through underground Philadelphia politics, poised to take down the establishment if he wishes. All thoughts of the man are pushed aside as she opens the door - dressing gown and curls. He reaches into his pocket and casts his eyes down, shyly hands her the bill but she grabs his wrist, pulls his hand up to her lips and presses a kiss to his palm. He gives her another once-over. She is so young, he thinks no more than twenty-four. He remembers being that young, or thinks he does; the war was a blur. But recklessness tempts from the tip of his tongue and he wishes to chase it.

Missus Reynolds invites him in. He goes. She is petite, a small woman, and there is a bruise on her neck when Alexander brushes her hair back from it. He kisses the spot, a sweet press of his lips, soothes it. She smells of fresh flowers, like a garden. He attempts not to trample the delicate soil, tries for once to be tender. He knows she is not the brash woman who’d approached him in the square - something convinces him that she is a mystery, as all women are. There is more beneath the surface. He fondly remembers John Laurens, no coy disguise. What he’d seen was what he’d got. Hamilton had thrilled in it at the time, but now - in an age of political intrigue and wars more subtle, allies and enemies constantly shifting - he appreciates the art of holding something back.

Maria holds back much, and he determines to see each facet of her.

He slips his hand beneath her chemise. She is soft, and he tries not to think of Eliza while he touches her, but the comparison is too easy. She yields just like her, and he presses against her, hard, but she squirms, and makes a noise of displeasure. He reminds himself that all women are not like his wife, who is a hardy lady with strong opinions and prefers not to be gentled. Maria seems like her but just different enough for there to be danger - and he knows the danger is not a single one, but daggers surrounding them from all sides, threats to add to the threats he already endures. This is stupid, it is heedless, and Alexander once again thinks back to his encounters during the war and makes a short-sighted decision.

*

She shows up on his doorstep late one evening, her hair loose and wet, the rouge on her cheeks smeared with rainwater. Her shoulders heave. Hamilton is stunned to see her. They have not had contact since the pamphlets he released; he barely recognizes her. She looks older, lines of furrow pressed into the corners of her mouth, her eyes sharpened with the wisdom he knows his wife and sister-in-law to have. A woman, not a girl.

Looking at her still makes him feel young.

Eliza is upstate with the children. It hurts to realize she likely wouldn’t care, anyway. He lets her in, pours her tea, listens to her tell him of the latest brute. He does not understand how some men are like flies to honey to haunted women. He considers whether his own pattern of attraction has been to women with damage, and decides that - no, it has been to women with damage to do.

They talk, as friends would. They are each too tired to do much else. He has been up late writing, and she has been up late crying and hurting. He does pull her to his chest, her soft breath tickling his neck. He inquires after her daughter. He offers her a spare room. She accepts but only for the night, she says - tomorrow she will go to her relative’s, where her daughter is. It is far past time to leave Philadelphia behind, she says; there is too much pain here. Unspoken are their goodbyes.

When he wakes it is to the late-morning sunlight streaming insistently through the windows and a note on the desk in his study. He remembers that he’d slipped a key in her garter years ago, when playfulness was something he indulged in, and never changed the locks.

He reads the letter. _Mister Hamilton._ She doesn’t write goodbye.

He gives up on feeling young.


End file.
